


My Last Fight

by spire_cx



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spire_cx/pseuds/spire_cx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hoya finds Dongwoo drinking alone in the middle of the night. he wants to be able to walk away, but wanting and doing are two very different things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Last Fight

**Author's Note:**

> written in response to a prompt i received requesting an elaboration of a line from Edge.

It's Monday but only midnight. The light is on in Sunggyu's room and also in the kitchen. There's someone watching TV in the house across the street. A few cars have passed, and a few people too.

Hoya is not so trashed as to have forgotten that they're technically in public. The driveway gate is closed, but it's only a gate. The windows of the van are dark but not opaque. The night seems still and empty, but Hoya knows the fans know where they live.

It's a stupid excuse, but they're here because this is where Hoya found him, drinking alone in the middle of the night. He probably didn't want to be found and maybe it was rude of Hoya to intrude, but seeing him one-shotting bottles of Hite in the back of the van made Hoya's heart twist in a way he didn't want to name. He wanted to be able to walk away, and he tried. But wanting and doing are different things, and in the end he found himself hanging in the open door, his mouth moving of its own volition, as it usually did these days.

"So this is where all your brain cells go," he said.

Dongwoo looked at him with wide eyes. "Howon?"

Hoya raised an eyebrow. "Hyung?"

Dongwoo's bewildered expression softened; he closed his mouth and crossed his legs and sat up straight, turning his body to face the door. He slid the hand not holding his drink between his thighs. "Do you want a beer?"

Hoya almost laughed out loud. He wanted to punch something. He climbed in instead.

Thirty minutes and who knows how many beers later he was well and truly sloshed, sitting and listening to Dongwoo talk about how he wasn't good enough: for this job, for his family, for Infinite, for him.

"Ah, I don't know," Dongwoo said finally, fiddling with the label on a bottle, peeling it in off in little pieces that fluttered to the floor. "It's stupid. I'm stupid."

He shifted his jaw around, pursed his lips, tilted his head from side to side like a child weighing a decision, and looked over at Hoya with bloodshot black doe-eyes.

Stupid.

"Yeah," Hoya said. "You are."

He reached out, took Dongwoo by the arm, yanked him forward, and kissed him. It wasn't exactly subtle, but neither was Dongwoo, and he was in no mood to play seduction games.

They kissed for a long time: hard and slow and languorous with intoxication, first at a distance, then their bodies close. Hoya put one hand on Dongwoo's shoulder; the other found its eventual way into his mouth. Dongwoo held on to Hoya's thigh as he sucked his fingers—first one, then two, staring straight at him as he did it. Hoya held his gaze. If he had been sober, he would have looked away; but he wasn't, so he didn't, letting himself believe instead that the darkness he saw in Dongwoo's depths was lust and nothing more.

The alcohol made it easy. He didn't even feel guilty.

Once they both were breathing hard Dongwoo stood up, shut the door to the cool August night, and fell to his knees at Hoya's feet.

In the back of his mind Hoya knows this is a bad idea, but the back of his mind is having trouble thinking in a straight line. His sense of self-preservation can compete with alcohol well enough, but right now it has Dongwoo's mouth to contend with too, and that's a team he has little chance of defeating with reason alone. He tries to worry, but the thoughts get lost somewhere in his head.

In the dark, Dongwoo is a pair of broad shoulders and a raven-haired head between his legs. The street lights glint in his hair as he moves up and down, sucking Hoya's cock with enthusiasm and affection.

Dongwoo is more vocal when he's tipsy, and he passed tipsy several bottles ago. It's a little embarrassing, the noises he's making: moans, whimpers, gasps when he can. If Hoya were sober it would be distracting. But he's not, so it isn't, and in fact this is probably the best head Dongwoo's ever given him. He's only been at it for a few minutes, and maybe it's just the alcohol, but already Hoya's world has gone fuzzy and dim; his senses are muddled, and he feels warm, sleepy, and loose. Dongwoo's mouth is perfectly wet and absolutely enveloping. When he brushes Dongwoo's bangs away Hoya can see his fat lips, glistening and pink, sliding around the iron intrusion of his cock; it's most provoking thing he's seen in years, and his entire body smoulders with want.

He closes his eyes and slumps deeper into the seat. Dongwoo's touch is hard and possessive as he moves his hands up the inside of Hoya's thighs, digging fingernails into his flesh through the thin fabric of his pants. Hoya shudders as a burning, serpentine hunger for the hurt of their bodies together weaves through him. It takes him under its control and makes him reach down to touch Dongwoo's hands, wind them into his own, and press their fingers deeper into his legs. Dongwoo moans, voice deep and gravelly, and Hoya's heart leaps to his throat. Wanting more, wanting all of him, he cradles Dongwoo's head in his hands and lays his palms against his skull and buries his fingers in his hair and pushes him down. Dongwoo chokes, pulls back, exhales, and then bends to the pressure; it feels like pieces of a great puzzle falling into place, some wide chasm opening up within him as Dongwoo takes him all the way, cock sliding effortlessly down into the tightness of his throat.

Dongwoo swallows around him and moves his tongue along his length and Hoya can feel the earth move under his lifeless body as he's dragged to the edge of orgasm. He swears his bones must be turning to water; he feels like he's melting into the seat, liquefying like ice cream left in the red summer sun. He says something: a curse, a prayer, Dongwoo's name; he tightens his fingers in his hair and thrusts up, up, up, seeking deliverance.

But then his hands are being pushed away and his hips are being held down and suddenly the warmth is gone: from his cock, from his entire body, draining out of his limbs. Hoya groans, shivers, and almost comes just from the feeling of being exposed, but then feels lost and confused, aching for relief. He opens his eyes and opens his mouth and moves to tell Dongwoo not to be such a brat, but when he glances down Dongwoo is looking up at him, eyes hard and hungry, lips red even in the blue light.

"I want you to come inside me," Dongwoo says, with the same pretty syncopation that ornaments everything else out of his mouth—but tonight it's no longer casual, no longer flippant, suddenly ten thousand kinds of alcohol-induced serious, and something twists painfully in Hoya's stomach.

Truthfully, Hoya was hoping to come on his face. (His cheeks, his lips, his eyelashes, his hair, the bridge of his beautiful nose.) But hearing Dongwoo speak summons the already-faded memory of his voice, not an hour earlier, as he tried to explain how far short he falls of everything he wants to be; Hoya's throat closes up and his heart feels heavy and what he wants for himself suddenly isn't so important anymore.

It's stupid, and it hurts, and even now he wishes he didn't want this, but the light from outside is falling on Dongwoo's hands and his fingernails are gleaming and Hoya's lips are moving before he even realizes he wants to speak.

"Yeah," he says, despite himself, despite everything. "Okay."

Stupid.

Dongwoo's body, long and hard and clumsy with drink, is unwieldy in the cramped space of the car. They kiss sloppily, and somehow manage to pull Dongwoo's jeans down to his knees. Fumbling for position, they move drunkenly around each other in the too-small cabin, and Dongwoo ends up bent over the back of the seat, ass in the air, smooth and pale in the low light.

Hoya licks two of his fingers and gropes clumsily at the darkness between Dongwoo's cheeks. His cock throbs when he finds him already loose and open: perhaps because of the blowjob, perhaps because of the beer, but either way it makes him dizzy with desire.

A little more saliva and one finger slips easily inside. Dongwoo inhales and rocks back and forth; pangs of want crackle through Hoya's stomach, and waves of vertigo crash over his head when Dongwoo pulls forward and arches his back and pushes down hard against his hand.

"Chill out," Hoya says through the daze—though he doesn't really mean it. "I'm getting there."

Hoya pulls away, spits again on his hand, and rubs it into Dongwoo's entrance. The slide is smoother when he replaces his finger and begins to move it in and out, and god, it's good: Dongwoo is hot and soft and Hoya's breath stutters at the thought of what it's like to be inside him. His strokes are slow and deep and deliberately teasing: not until Dongwoo is gasping in anticipation does he curl his finger and press into him.

Dongwoo lets out a small noise that makes Hoya's guts twist into sudden knots; when Hoya does it again, thrusting hard against the sensitive spot, Dongwoo moans, shivers, and lets his head fall. Hoya pulls out, pushes two fingers back in, and sees the flash of Dongwoo's hand in the darkness as he reaches between his legs. He watches him wrap his fingers, long and graceful, around the shadow of his erection, and relishes in the blue burning feeling that arcs through his body at the thought of how much Dongwoo loves this.

They've barely begun but already Hoya can read the signs of Dongwoo's body spinning up with pleasure: his stillness, his breath coming hard, his erratic strokes as he jerks his darkened, leaking cock. He's ready and he wants it but he's still not slick enough: Hoya can feel the friction against his fingers when he pushes deep inside. There's nothing around he can use to help things along, but he's not about to _stop_. He purses his lips and tries to think. Well, he has his mouth, he guesses.

Maybe if he were sober he would think about this for longer than three seconds, but he's not, so he doesn't. He removes his fingers, dips down, spreads Dongwoo open, and licks at his asshole: first tentatively, then again with confidence, swiping the tip of his tongue around the puckered flesh.

"Oh," Dongwoo gasps, then laughs. "Oh, that feels good."

Hoya doesn't know what he was expecting, but Dongwoo tastes simple: like sweat and skin and, when he pushes his tongue inside, iron—dull and raw, honest and intimate. Under his mouth he can feel Dongwoo's body relaxing, his hole opening and clenching in turns as Hoya laps around, across, and inside him.

Soon Dongwoo's entire body is quaking, and Hoya feels the touch of his hand on his head. Dongwoo curls his fingers; his nails scratch across Hoya's scalp.

"More," he breathes. "Deeper."

Hoya shudders. He brings one hand down to his own cock, rock hard and hot to the touch, and groans as he strokes it: once, twice, slowly, beginning to move his tongue in and out of Dongwoo in earnest.

Above him Dongwoo is panting, breath wheezing, moaning deep and loud; the sound of his voice is incredible, intoxicating—both of Hoya's hands tighten involuntarily, one around his cock and the other into the firm swell of Dongwoo's ass. Perfect, he thinks. Perfect ass. He raises his hand and brings it down hard, smacking Dongwoo soundly, the sound loud and obscene in the midnight silence.

Dongwoo gasps and arches into the blow. "Please," he says, trembling, "please, baby."

Hoya's not sure exactly what he's begging for, but he's too drunk and too turned on to care. He squeezes Dongwoo's ass and pushes his tongue deep inside him and Dongwoo moans, sweaty hands squealing against the leather seats as he struggles for purchase.

" _Please_ , Howon," Dongwoo says again, his voice deep and broken like Hoya's never heard it before. "Just... give it to me."

Hoya sits back on his heels. Above him Dongwoo has fallen into the seat, crumpled awkwardly under the weight of his pleasure. His hair is stringy and sweaty and sticking to his forehead. His eyes are half-closed and his mouth is open and the lines of his dazed and desperate expression are limned with silver-blue light.

At this angle his face looks strange and accidental and oddly timeless, like he's stepped from a faded photograph taken in an age when people looked different. For a terrifying moment he's unrecognizable, like he's phasing in and out of the man Hoya knows—like he's actually a stranger, someone Hoya only thinks he understands. Hoya's stomach lurches. He doesn't want it to; he doesn't want these thoughts to be so frightening. He wants to be able to say that he doesn't care if he knows him—that he doesn't care who he fucks, stranger or no, because it's just sex, after all.

He wants to. But wanting and doing are two very different things.

Dongwoo opens his eyes, and his gaze finds Hoya's. For a split second Hoya sees more than he wants to see: darkness, difference, and something more than desire.

Hoya looks away.

"Turn over," he says.

In a flash, Dongwoo is Dongwoo again as he complies with Hoya's order, his bare skin slapping against the leather as he flops into the seat. Hoya keeps his gaze trained at the floor as he yanks Dongwoo's shoes off and throws them somewhere behind him; Dongwoo kicks him in the stomach trying to pull off his jeans, and only manages to free one leg in the end—they dangle from his ankle as Hoya grabs his thighs and pulls him to the edge of the seat and kneels between his spread legs.

Dongwoo snatches at one of Hoya's hands and sucks three fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them and coating them with as much saliva as possible. When Dongwoo opens his eyes and looks up at him Hoya pulls his hand away with a pop and wraps it around his dick, fisting himself to wetness.

He rubs the head of his cock up and down over Dongwoo's entrance, sliding in the slick of saliva and making vulgar noises in the quiet of the car until Dongwoo groans and claws at his shoulders and wraps his legs tight around his waist.

"Do it," Dongwoo says. "Stop fooling around."

Hoya would say something, throw him some witty retort, but his brain is fizzing and popping between his ears with the knowledge that Dongwoo wants him, wants his dick inside of him, and all he can manage is a grunt.

He uses his hands, fingers wet, to push his cock against Dongwoo's waiting hole. It's dark in the car, but there's scant light enough to see as the thick, soft head squeezes inside.

Slowly he starts to edge in, watching himself disappear into Dongwoo's body. Even like this, drunk and restless, coming into him is like coming home. Dongwoo is so hot and so tight, and fuck if he doesn't take Hoya's dick like a well-practiced expert: holding himself open, taking deep breaths, relaxing everything to let him in smoothly.

Once he's halfway there Hoya pulls out, spits in his hand, rubs it over the head of his cock, and pushes back in—slowly, inch by inch, until he's all the way to the hilt. When he finally bottoms out Dongwoo laughs, a sharp sound more shocked than amused. He cranes to look between the wide spread of his thighs at where Hoya is buried inside him.

"Oh," he says, " _daebak_."

He falls back against the seat and looks up. Their eyes meet again; Dongwoo chews on his lower lip, grins crookedly, and wriggles his hips, moving on Hoya's cock, stroking deep inside himself with the head. It's criminal how amazing it feels, and Hoya has a sudden urge to bite him everywhere: lips, neck, chest, thighs, cock, marking him, claiming him, punishing him, rewarding him.

He settles for the side of his knee, nipping hard at his skin. Dongwoo groans, and Hoya takes the opportunity to thrust gently, pulling halfway out and pushing all the way back in. Dongwoo winces but doesn't tell him to stop. Hoya does it again.

Dongwoo's brow is furrowed but his smile persists through the first uncomfortable strokes, proof of the pleasure he finds in the simple fact of their coition. With touches and patience and more saliva smeared around his throbbing cock, Hoya finds a good rhythm, hard and fast. It's not as slick as it could be, not as smooth or as easy, but they're drunk and desperate and Dongwoo likes it when it hurts anyway.

He does what he knows gets Dongwoo off, angling toward his stomach in short, quick thrusts. Dongwoo's eyes screw shut and he reaches out to take big handfuls of Hoya's shirt, tugging on it hard like a drowning man pulling at a line. He's strong, so strong, especially in his moments of abandon when he's suffocating in sensation and can't stop to think about how hard he's pulling Hoya's hair or squeezing his shoulders. The thought that Dongwoo is losing himself to the feeling of his cock inside him makes Hoya's entire body spark with pleasure, but he can feel the fabric of the shirt threatening to tear around his neck.

"Let go," he says, using one hand to pry Dongwoo's fingers apart.

Dongwoo opens his eyes and looks up at him, gaze distant and vulnerable. "Take it off," he says.

Hoya pulls the shirt off as quickly as he can in the cramped space of the car, and as soon as it's gone Dongwoo grabs hard at Hoya's chest, moving his hands over the landscape of his body, slick with a sheen of sweat.

"God," he breathes, "you're perfect."

Hoya's stride stutters. Perfect. _Perfect_. The word is so stupid, it makes Hoya want to hit him.

"Shut up," he says.

He could say more. He could tell him he doesn't understand. He could tell him he's in no position to talk about perfection. He could tell him no one's perfect when they aren't complete.

He doesn't. He's drunk, but he's not that drunk—not enough to say all of that.

"I'll shut up if you fuck me like you mean it for once," Dongwoo snaps.

Hoya's heart flips over in his chest, and for a moment the world stops. His mind is addled, his thoughts are disparate, but even through the haze he can see it in Dongwoo's eyes: that maybe he doesn't have to say anything about why he's not perfect—that maybe Dongwoo already knows.

Maybe Dongwoo knows better than he does.

A thousand defensive replies bubble up at the back of his throat, but he can't find the strength to say any of them. He looks away from Dongwoo's piercing gaze, but Dongwoo reaches up, wraps his hands around the back of his neck, and pulls him down to press his lips against his ear.

"Come on," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Fuck me."

Hoya's vision goes dark with sudden anger. He slaps Dongwoo's hands away from his neck and grabs at his ankles, crushing them in his fists. He forces the tangle of Dongwoo's jeans and designer underwear from his leg; he hooks his arms under his knees and folds his body in half and leans down into him, closer, closer, that their breaths are mingling, and his sweat is dripping from his chin onto Dongwoo's collarbones, and he can see the reflections of the street lamps in the dark of Dongwoo's eyes.

When he starts thrusting again, hard and impossibly deep, Dongwoo shouts and curses and scratches long red ribbons down his chest. He tries to hit at Hoya's shoulders but his hands are shaking and his entire body is rocking and the best he can do is wrap his arms around him and try to hold on.

"Hard enough for you, hyung?" Hoya asks.

Dongwoo looks up at him. His lips are silent but his eyes are speaking volumes.

Hoya refuses to be cowed, and does not look away. Instead he goes faster, pounding down into him, determined to show him that he means it—that he's always meant it. Dongwoo cries out and clutches at him; his long, pretty, perfectly-manicured fingernails, sharp in the shape of sliced almonds, dig deep into his flesh, and Hoya can feel his skin tearing as he rakes them down his back. With every thrust Dongwoo scratches more, deeper, gouging trenches in his skin—it stings and burns and _hurts_ , and Hoya knows that if he were sober it'd feel more like being flayed and less like being validated and justified, but he's not, and it doesn't, and when Dongwoo's muscles go rock-hard and his eyes flutter closed it feels like pieces are coming together, something wrong being put right.

Dongwoo is usually loud when he comes. But as his hands take fistfuls of Hoya's hair and his muscles clench and his body goes still with his approaching orgasm, he's silent. His mouth is open and he's struggling to breathe, whining and trying to keep his eyes open as Hoya continues into him, unrelenting.

Hoya wants to hold on, to maintain composure. He wants to fuck him through it, to lead him, to be the reassuring hand at the small of his back as he crumbles. He wants to be there at the end for him, something to lean on after he's been hollowed out. But Dongwoo's entire body is tightening around him, around his shoulders and his waist and his cock, and he's begging incoherently for something: _please_ , _please_ , _please_ , _Howon_ , and Hoya suddenly remembers what Dongwoo wanted from him. He remembers everything he's ever wanted from him and realizes, in a sudden moment of clarity, that it's never been composure. It's never been reassurance.

He looks down, and Dongwoo is watching him, eyes glistening and dark and waiting.

"Hyung," Hoya gasps, beyond all thought, "I'm—"

"Do it," Dongwoo says, "show me."

And all he has to do is think of Dongwoo wanting him: wanting his passion and fervor, wanting him undone, wanting him as more than a body.

Later, he will not be able to remember how it happened, or how it felt. It's a blur of pain and perfection. He makes a wordless sound, strained and desperate. Dongwoo chokes on the syllables of his name. It flashes through him like wildfire sweeping into a valley, burning the landscape to ash.

For a long moment he is only smoke.

As he comes back down into his body, he half expects Dongwoo to be gone, and for all of this to have been a fantasy or hallucination. When he opens his eyes, though, Dongwoo is still there: dazed and drained but still there. Against all odds, they're both still there, bodies entangled in the humid darkness of the car.

Hoya's mind is blank but his head is spinning, as if all his inebriation is rushing to catch up with him after having been rudely ignored for the past thirty minutes. He puts a hand against the window to steady himself, and sinks back to his knees on the floor.

Dongwoo has one arm over his face. His other hand is cupping his ass, fingers trailing in the mess of semen and saliva that Hoya has made there. His expensive t-shirt is splattered with come all the way up to the v-neck collar and plastered to his body with sweat. He's breathing hard, heavy, hiccuping breaths that sound like sobs; Hoya's heart does sickening acrobatics in his chest and all the blood drains from his face, but when Dongwoo pulls his arm away he's smiling, laughing uncontrollably.

There's nothing particularly funny about any of this, but Hoya knows that's not why Dongwoo is laughing.

"Wow," Dongwoo says, chuckling.

Hoya doesn't respond. He's not sure he has any words left in him.

Dongwoo puts his hands back over his face, laughs again, and wipes the sweat from his brow. His arms flop back into the seat and he heaves a heavy sigh. He looks up at Hoya—his gaze has lost its intensity, has become softer but somehow more intelligent, like some fog has cleared and the world has become more clarion. It's strange, but it feels like looking down into a mountain lake, water cold and crystalline.

It feels like the world is spinning around him, and he can't help but feel a little ashamed. But above it all, Hoya feels empty—blissfully empty.

"Are you bleeding?" Dongwoo asks. "Your back."

Hoya reaches up over his shoulders and runs his hands gingerly over his scratches, but when he pulls his hand away he cannot see in the darkness whether his fingers are bloody. He's having a little trouble focusing on his hand.

"I don't think so."

Dongwoo hums deep in his chest, a low, inquisitive noise like he's thinking deeply about something.

"You know," he begins, "sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself."

Hoya peers at him. He wonders if this is the same man that was beneath him five minutes ago, speaking salient truths—and even as he wonders, knows the answer isn't so black and white as _the same_ or _different_.

No. Because looking at him is like scrying into a crystal ball flashing revelatory, reluctant, and reflective in turns. But maybe, he realizes, with sudden immensity, that has more to do with himself than it does with Dongwoo.

"Maybe," he says.

Maybe.


End file.
